"How do you do it?" It's a question you get used to quickly working in the medical field, and especially pediatrics. You learn that most of the time your work stories aren't ones to throw in over lunch dates with friends. You share something you think was no big deal, or something that you see as a victory, and you look up to see some stone cold faces and someone says "But...how do you work with sick kids all the time?! I could NEVER do that"
It's a natural question, and I absolutely understand where it comes from. But it can be a tough one to answer depending on the conversation. Because beyond the lab draws, the IV fluids, spinal taps, conscious sedations, and appendectomies, there lies a world not well understood by those who haven't lived in it. Though we are truly the masters of child-like play and distraction, Child life specialists are often tasked with things far more intense than bubbles, toys, and medical procedures.
We respond to code blues, rapid responses, critical rescues, and trauma alerts. We (attempt to) remain calm in the most chaotic and emotionally charged situations.
So, great question. How do we get by? How do we convince ourselves to walk back into the hospital night after night? How do we leave work every night without leaving a huge piece of our heart behind in the trauma bay? Recently, I was hit with this question head on. Moments after his son was pronounced dead as the result of a tragic accident, a loving father looked me in the eye and between sobs said "I just don't understand how you guys can do this all the time." I had no reply. Because in those moments, I'm not always quite sure myself.
You see, We walk a fine line of emotions: too closed off and we aren't fully available to be compassionate, emphathetic, and completely invested when the family needs us by their side. Too emotionally involved, though, and we will take each loss much too personally. We love our patients and care so deeply about their families, but must sustain this passion for a lifetime. So, how do we do it?
I have sat with children while their parents are told that today's blood test results indicate a likely diagnosis of leukemia; I once was in the room while a fellow child life specialist and mentor told two young children that their (single) parent would die soon, likely within the next few days. I sat in the corner of the ER trauma bay trying my best to comfort a mom while her child was intubated and resuscitated. One night late into the evening I forced an anxious mom to eat saltine crackers and drink apple juice in the surgical waiting room while her child lie in MRI to evaluate her arm pain. The images later revealed what we were all dreading: an aggressive, cancerous mass. One rainy day in the PICU, I helped a family create memories with their child shortly before she was to be taken off of life support. I cried later, suddenly realizing I had just given that sweet baby her first haircut. And, perhaps most significant, the time I was asked to tell two beautiful young girls that within a day their sister would join Jesus up in heaven. It was my job to help them understand that she would never come back home with them. I realized that this would likely be a turning point in their lives that they always remembered, and felt the immense pressure of doing everything I could do make this better for their whole family. All of this and more, in just 2 short years of a very young career.
So yes, I understand the question, sometimes coupled with a horrified expression... "how do you do it!? " But the reality is this: there is beauty in these moments, if you choose to see it. You really have to look for it, but it is there, and my God is it good.
In the middle of the night in the ER exam room, when the mom who just received the scariest and most unexpected news of her life tearfully thanks you for staying by her side so that she's not alone until her friends arrive. The patient from the trauma bay made it up to the PICU, and I later heard that his mom had told the medical staff she didn't remember the circumstances, but she felt like an angel had sat with her that night and comforted her. Months after the life altering cancer diagnosis, when the mom from the surgical waiting room shares how well they are doing and says that she will always remember the few special people, you included, that were there to help in the beginning of their long journey. And then her beautiful daughter excitedly gives you a homemade cookie and wishes you a "happy valentimes day!". And yes, even in the consultation room of the PICU, in between tears, on that night when you realize that though you've given family members the worst news they will ever hear, you're told you specifically were the one person who helped them to see God's shining light in the middle of such darkness.
Months later, I joined this same family to honor their sweet angel at the annual CHOC fundraiser - CHOC Walk in the Park. This family was so appreciative of the love and care they had been shown by the staff at CHOC that they wanted to give back by raising funds and walking in honor of their angel. I arrived, and to my surprise, many of their extended family members remembered me by name and were excited to give me a hug and thank me for coming. Realizing it might be one of the most redemptive moments of my career, I walked down Disneyland's main street, hand in hand with her two beautiful siblings from that memorable, tearful night in the consultation room.
We won't always be thanked. We're rarely appreciated. We seldom see the long term benefits of our interventions. We don't frequently get follow up with families. We're not always so fortunate to so easily see the beauty through the pain. To find the miracle in the midst of the suffering. But in this beautiful moment in the happiest place on earth, I quickly wiped away the tears streaming down my face, and I could hear the voice in my head clearly.
"This is how. This is how I come back every night, even when it hurts. And this is why"
